Thanks Danielle For Lighting a Fire Under My Ass!

All too recently did I receive a wall post on Facebook saying that I have not blogged in over a month and  need to get back on my shit because it is hard to keep bicoastal tabs on my whereabouts unless I'm blogging constantly. And I agree. I've been meaning to blog, I really have been, but I've been busy suffering from a severe bout of senioritis-1. Its called Senioritis-1 because I won't be graduating for another year, so my lazyness has gotten the best of me. I wish something exciting has been going on in my life, but it hasn't. 

In all the time I haven't been blogging, I've been working on my life plan because I am once again at my wits end with this sports journalism major. I can't go into too much detail about my business plan because someone could steal my idea, and then I'd be forced to kill somebody. To make a short story even shorter, I'm going to open up my own bookstore. So if anyone is looking for a job in 3 years come find me. 

My new life plan also includes a new pet. Once Mac dies, I want a Boston Terrier puppy named Jesus Shuttlesworth after Ray Allen's character in the hit Spike Lee Joint: He Got Game. Pardon the shameless plug but it is a good movie, and you should rent it if you have the chance. Before I decided on this puppy, I wanted to raise a white tiger cub. I did some light Wikipedia work to see what I could find out about white tigers. When I think of these tigers, I think of majestic creatures that look like this:

However, since white tigers are genetic mutants, they have to be inbred. Mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, or brothers and sisters have to be mated in order for this to happen. But check this shit out. Just like humans, incest causes all sorts of crazy things to happen. So some tigers are born with kitty downs syndrome, and wind up looking like little Luis Guzman tigers. A little something like this:

Now when I first came across this pictures, I literally laughed for hours on end. This tiger's misfortune shouldn't be this funny, but look at his face. I also found out that blue tigers also exist. Who knew?

I Don't Even Drive My Bentley

I realized that my Super Bowl 44 post was kind of weak, so I'm going to give some extra effort today. Especially since I found out that I now have a grand total of TWO readers! That's right, count 'em, one AND two. It's really hard being as perfect as me, and I completely understand if you couldn't make it through that last statement without laughing.


For my last ever attempt at anything Super Bowl 44 related, Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush are not going to get married just yet. I mean a marriage should not be based on a football game; that's too risky. It should be based on the love you have for one another. And yes I did learn that point from eHarmony. Kim is also a good six years older than Reggie. She was also married once before. Remember that? When she was 19 (ten years ago mind you) and she eloped. Or the fact that no self respecting man, would want Ray-J's sloppy seconds. I mean she is a pretty face, and if I had the Crayola people to make up my face everyday, I imagine I could stop traffic too. If you watch the show, you know that the whole Klan of Kardasian Krazies is out of control. Can we even be sure they were football fans before Kim and Reggie were dating? That would me that they would have to admit to like Ray J's music, and that's just preposterous. If they do get married, it's a publicity stunt, or she's pregnant. If she was really scheming, she should know that between now and next month would be the time to trap him. I was talking to a friend of mine and we came to the conclusion that Kim Kardashian is NOT as rich as she says she is. She drives her own Bentley, but rich people have drivers. Hey, we can't all be P. Diddy.


Before we get started, I have a new prop to make me seem cooler, as it improves my already awesome party trick of opening beer bottles with my teeth. Now don't go telling people that I shop at Hot Topic. I feel like my fiscally responsible, totally happy, 21 year old self is cheating on life with my emo, teenage angsty self. These are some really dope platform stilettos that will eventually break my ankle when my friend Tequila fails me yet again. But they have bottle openers in the heels. If it were anyway at all to out fantastic anything fantastic, this would be it.


Blanyway, I am a huge movie fan, mainly because movies are exponentially more entertaining than anything that will ever happen to me. There are so many good movies that are coming out this year, Iron Man 2, Shrek: The Final Chapter and Avatar: The Last Airbender are some of my must sees. However, my most obvious choice would be Percy Jackson and The Olympians: The Lightening Thief, in theaters this Friday. I will be seeing this movie for my Valentines Day date. Don't be silly, we all know I'm going with my single self. When I took my cousin/child Brittany to see New Moon (again), we saw a coming attraction for Percy Jackson, we squealed like 14 year olds. The main problem being that she really is 14 and I am not. Thankfully we were savvy enough to go to Barnes and Nobles expressly after the movie to buy the entire series of books. This is a series of books based on Greek mythology, and seeing as I was a Classics scholar in high school, I eat this shit up like it is candy. Nectar of the gods if you will. I am currently trying to muster up enough energy to finish book 4. It's not that I don't want to read it, I just don't have the time to sit down and read with my crazy television and Netflix schedules. I am actually quite scared to see it, because I get quite upset when when movies aren't true to the book. Even though this worked out quite well for Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs.


Mondays are especially intense for television schedule. I have to watch RuPaul's Drag Race, and Untucked mainly because my veins will be itching uncontrollably if I do not. But for those of you who have any free time on Mondays between 8 and 9 pm, let me hook you up to this little gem called: The Secret Life of the American Teenager. This show is about sex. Who is doing it, who isn't doing it, who should and shouldn't be doing it and of course the MANY different combinations and styles of doing it. This show is completely JUICY. The producers of TSLOTAT have proven that there is no shortage of drama in high school. I had NO idea there was that much sex around me when I was high school. High school sex was Angelo after football practice, and that was good enough. Molly Ringwald is in it, and so is that girl that played Bernie Mac's niece, Vanessa. If you want to catch up, there is a marathon on Monday, February 15 at 2pm. Seven full hours, and I am parking my tuchus in front of the television for all of them. Bottom line, the show is good, and have I ever steered you wrong?


Now for our grand finale, a recap of RuPaul's Drag Race. When we last left our heroines, they were asked to create outfits based on the Scarlett O'Hara idea of making an outfit out of curtains and used home furnishings. Morgan McMichaels won, because her look was very Cher Geefani, a mix of Cher and Fergie and Gwen Stefani. Mystique used her one and only party trick, a big girl split, to save her soul, and Shangela was sent home. The mini challenge this week was to transform a RuPaul doll into a whore. If anyone knows where to find one of these dolls, and is feeling generous, please feel free to buy me one. I promise you my second born child and my spare kidney. This mini challenge determined the team captains for the main challenge. And that challenge was burlesque dancing, The teams had a choreographed dance and solo dances. My least favorite person of the episode was Tyra , and I hoped that she was the one to go home this week, but despite her serving fish and bitch, she was safe. The bottom two were Raven, who will "take your man" and Nicole Page Brooks, a southern saloon madame. They lip synced to En Vogue's Never Gonna Get It. Raven rocked it, especially when she sanctioned all the other queens to sing back up during the breakdown. We all no that in my Valhalla, there will be drag queens doing 90s style breakdowns.


Seeing as I am in desperate need of getting my hair done, my journey to becoming a Gay Icon is a dream detoured.

Bare Essentials of Insomnia

When I was in high school, the quintessential hood rat phone was the T-Mobile Sidekick. I was miles behind the pack and had a Motorola V3 RZR. Though I did eventually get a then coveted Sidekick, I'm not so sure that my transition to a smart phone was a healthy one. I invested in a Sidekick 3 because my Razor had been shot to shit by my excessive use. Even though, I mainly used it to argue with my then boyfriend. The back light died, then the speaker went and one night in my dorm room, I decided I needed a newer, more durable phone. We all know that cell phone companies are a racket and of course I was ineligible for an upgrade on a bogus technicality. So I took to ebay.com to find a Sidekick and when it arrived, I was very excited in a very dorky way.

My 'Kick had me addicted with the first IM. I could be reached at anytime and it was all in the palm of my hand. I liked the Sidekick because it was quite exclusive to my campus. I was one of three people who had it. With this phone, I became a texting whiz. I PBd at 160 characters in under a minute. Ringtones?!?!? Bitch please! I had a different ringtone for every person in my contacts. This was all well and good...in Springfield. I often forget that I come from an urban area where hood shit is prevalent. I came home to find that EVERYONE had the exact same phone. But I had tasted the nectar from the Smartphone tree, and there was no turning back. I dabbled in phones including a later model of the Sidekick, and when I changed to Sprint, a diet Sidekick which was more like a nemesis. I eventually settled down with my Blackberry and it is the third hemisphere of my brain. I CANNOT survive without it.

It allows me to do absolutely heinous things like draft a blog entry at 4:14 AM, eastern standard time, all for my 1 reader. This phone keeps me connected to all sorts of useless shit: Facebook, Twitter, Blackberry Messenger, AIM, Yahoo Messenger, and my necessary, yet useless email. Rarely do I use it to make phone calls, which is a sign that the tech world needs to get back to basics.

That was a completely useless and irrelevant back story about trying not to look like a sketch ball by typing away on my phone under the covers to tell a story. But I wanted my reader to know how much she has me committed to keeping our bi-coastal creeping aflame. What I really wanted to talk about was infomercials. While I'm stuck battling a slight bout of insomnia, I've been watching some infomercials. The people behind these things are brilliant.

Late at night, or in the wee hours of the morning, most of the world is fast asleep. So why advertise when theoretically every one is supposed to be in dreamland? Because these products cater to the poor sleepless souls of America. Four times this week I came thisclose to ordering some makeup to cover my unsightly under eye circles. Ironically, I wouldn't see this commercial or need this product if I wasn't up at this forsaken hour.